


Midnights in October

by Wonderfully_Wandering_Alone



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: (basically), (mostly), Canon Compliant, Discussions of Magic Loss, Drowning, Harrison Campbells, Other, Platonic Life Partners, Pre-Season/Series 04, Sailing, Timeskip, unhealthy eating habits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 20:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30027621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonderfully_Wandering_Alone/pseuds/Wonderfully_Wandering_Alone
Summary: With his magic gone and his team lost, Wilde returns to the only other person he knows he can trust. Sometimes the only way out is through, even when that seems impossible too.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde, in a qpr way
Comments: 15
Kudos: 27





	Midnights in October

**Author's Note:**

> It turns out I can only write if I'm listening to Dom Fera? Inspired by the song with the same title.  
> Before you get started, please note that I don't know anything about pathfinder/d&d magic and rules. I also haven't sailed in about ten years, and I've only been north of Scotland once (and it wasn't anything like this). Please take some "suspended belief" pills before reading.

When Einstein makes his fourth visit to Atsugi Wilde realises he might need to get started on the B-Team. He’d wanted so much to believe they’d be coming back, but he also knows they’re in Rome, that they might not all make it back, that literally anything could happen, that he can’t risk the world on his feelings. 

“I’m sorry, “ Einstein says, his hair as wild as it always is, eyes darting around Wilde’s office to see if anything has changed. Nothing has, but Wilde lets him draw that conclusion on his own. 

"No sign?” Wilde asks, but he already knows. Einstein shrugs, pushing his glasses up from his eyes to rest atop his head. 

“You know how it goes,” he says. “They’re.. Well. They’re in Rome.” 

“Yes,” Wilde sighs, burying his head in his hands. He knows what he’s going to do now. He can’t give up, no matter how hard it is, no matter how much he wants to sit around and wait for his friends. 

“Um,” Einstein says, rocking awkwardly on his heels. “So I’ll just go then? See you next Sunday, unless they turn up, of course.” 

“Einstein, wait,” Wilde sighs, looking back up. Einstein does so, nodding for Wilde to go on. “Can you take me to Scotland?” 

“Scotland?” Einstein repeats. “I mean, yeah, of course I can, I’m great like that. But what’s in Scotland? Well, I know what’s in Scotland. They have cows and cities and the-” 

“Zolf’s in Scotland,” Wilde interrupts, cutting off Einstein’s rambling before it gets too out of control. “He’s in Edinburgh, and I need to catch him before he leaves.”

“I do not know who that is, but okay,” Einstein says. “When do you need to go?” 

“Give me five minutes?” Wilde asks. “I’ve prepared a bag.” 

“Okay,” Einstein says. “I can do that. Okay.” 

* * *

Zolf may not want to join him, Wilde is well aware of that. In fact, he’s hardly banking on it. But it’s a place to start, and at the very least Wilde knows Zolf deserves the truth about what has happened to the L.O.L.O.M.G team. Hamid and Sasha- and Bi-Ming. 

"Pull yourself together, Wilde,” he hisses to himself under his breath. 

“Hey, you’re okay,” Einstein says, reaching up slightly to pat Wilde’s shoulder. “You got this!” 

Wilde forces a smile, but worries it comes out as more of a grimace. Einstein doesn’t seem to notice, however, and responds with his own big toothy grin. 

“Wow, it really is raining here, isn’t it?” Einstein remarks, scratching at his chin. He’s not wrong, and while from Wilde’s experience, it’s always raining in Scotland, this feels different. More purposeful, like Japan. Wilde doesn’t like it, doesn’t like the animosity of it. 

“Hey, so where should I meet you next week? Back here?” Einstein looks around. They’re on Princes Street at the entrance to the gardens. The castle rises up behind them, still looking magnificent despite the downpour, and Wilde nods. He still needs to get down to Leith from here, but that will be easy enough that he doesn’t need to bother Einstein for such an insignificant journey. 

“I guess here makes sense,” he agrees. “Then you can bring me back to Atsugi and we can figure out the next steps from there.”

“Okay,” Einstein says. “Okay, cool, yeah.” He hovers slightly, just out of reach from Wilde. Wilde raises an eyebrow at him, nodding in encouragement. 

“Hey, um. Look after yourself,” Einstein says, leaning in for the briefest of hugs. He’s gone before Wilde can react, teleported away, probably back to Rome. 

“I’m fine,” Wilde says to the empty space in front of him. “I’m… I’m fine.” 

* * *

Wilde finds Zolf, predictably, at the docks. He’s got his signature ratty old raincoat on, a wide brimmed hat covering his face and tall boots to his knees, hiding his legs from prying eyes, but Wilde knows without a doubt that it’s him. Zolf hasn’t spotted him yet, too busy arguing with an orc twice his height. He holds out some rope in his hands, shaking them slightly as he talks. The orc shakes their head at him before turning away. Zolf calls out to them, but they ignore him. It’s when Zolf turns away, full scowl on his face that he sees Wilde. His face darkens even more. 

“Wilde,” he growls when he’s made his way over to where Wilde leans against a shipping container, making no attempt to stay out of the rain. 

“Mr Smith,” Wilde says, smirking slightly. He doesn’t know why he does it. It’s not like he wants to antagonise Zolf, not now. They don’t have time to wind each other up, and he’s here to break bad news and ask for help. But the words slip out before he can help himself. “What’s got your knickers in a knot?” 

Zolf shoulders past him, thunder in his step, and carries on to another jetty. 

“What are you doing here?” He demands instead, opting to ignore Wilde’s taunt. 

“Pleased to see me?” Wilde goads, following after him. He swears himself out internally, but Gods it’s easy to fall back into old dynamics. 

“Cut to the chase, Wilde,” Zolf snaps, spinning on his heel and staring him dead in the eye. “What are you doing here?” 

Wilde straightens up, wiping the smirk off his face. He knows how he must look to Zolf, rugged and disheveled. The last time they were together was in Paris, and while he wasn’t in the best condition then, at least they were in a fight. At least he had his magic and was useful. Not like now, with his shaved head and the shackles around his ankles. He hasn’t slept the night through in months, and he can’t remember his last square meal. He can’t even keep himself dry in this rain. Zolf’s eyes scan him up and down, clearly taking this all in. 

“We need to talk,” Wilde says, unable to do better than a tired cliche. “Do you have plans for dinner?” 

"I do now,” Zolf grumbles, turning away and continuing in his path. “But you’re paying.” 

* * *

They go to a small chain, something with Soggy in the name, and Wilde sits against the wall, facing the door. 

“I’m not joining the rangers,” Zolf says in lieu of a greeting as he takes the seat opposite Wilde. “No way am I ever seeing Bertie again. Besides, I’m too busy.”

“That’s not what I’m here to ask,” Wilde says. He folds his hands over each other, resting them on the table between them. 

“Good,” Zolf says, but if Wilde didn’t know any better, he’d say he almost looks disappointed. 

“You won’t ever be seeing Bertie again,” Wilde confirms, deciding to ease Zolf into the news with what he’d probably want to hear most first. “He’s dead. He died in Prague.” 

“Oh,” Zolf says. He nods, a minuscule movement, and his lips twitch into a faint echo of a smile. “How?” 

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard, actually,” Wilde says, leaning back on one arm briefly, before pulling himself back upright. Professional. He wants to be professional here. He can’t give Zolf an excuse to storm out, and being his usual arrogant self might do just that. “A face-down with Kafka, he died in front of a large audience. Hundreds of spectators watching him beg for his life, for Kafka to kill Hamid’s sister instead of him.” 

Zolf winces and looks away. Maybe that was too much, but Wilde can’t get a read on this man, on how the conversation is going. 

“What happened to Hamid’s sister?” Zolf asks. Wilde looks away now, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

“She died,” he says quietly. “They held her funeral in Cairo, the rangers went. There are four of them again, and they have a new name: the London and Other London Outstanding Mercenary Group.” 

“Where are they now?” 

“Maybe we should order some drinks,” Wilde suggests, catching the eye of a waiter passing by. “And some food. And maybe some more drinks.” 

“That bad?” Zolf asks. Wilde nods.

"Yeah,” he says, “that bad.”

The waiter arrives and takes their orders, Zolf bristling with impatience as he waits. Wilde orders a thin soup, something easy to eat and will hopefully stay down. He’s been struggling with that, recently. Too much stress for an appetite, eating leading to nausea to rival the magic curse his shackles bar. There’s a fine line upon which to balance to ensure he has enough energy to wake up, but doesn’t eat enough to set anything off. He’s coping, though. He’s fine. 

“Where are they, Wilde?” Zolf demands once the waiter is out of earshot. 

“Rome,” Wilde says. He was going to build up to it, maybe explain why before going into where, but there’s no room for exposition in Zolf’s expression, so he doesn’t bother. 

“They’re- Right. Okay. And how do we get them out?” 

Wilde sighs and pours two glasses of water from the pitcher on their table. He slides the first one over to Zolf and nurses his own between his palms. The glass is cool in his hands, a grounding touch. 

“There’s got to be a way to get them out of Rome, right?” Zolf presses when Wilde doesn’t reply. He ignores the glass Wilde has poured for him, he ignores the waiter who drops off their beers, he ignores the rest of the restaurant and stares Wilde down. It’s intimidating but not threatening. They may not get on, but he knows Zolf wouldn’t actually harm him- not in a way that sticks. 

“They went to Rome, but they’ve gone through a portal. They each had a loved one kidnapped, a reason to go. It’s been four weeks and there’s been no sign of them.” 

“Four weeks? That's all? Four weeks and you’re giving up?” Zolf snaps. 

“I’m not giving up, Zolf.” Wilde snaps back. “Einstein waits for them and reports back to me. But I can’t wait forever, and while the world is still spinning I have to keep moving. There’s something big on the horizon.” 

“I don’t- I said I wouldn’t join you,” Zolf says. He folds his arms across his chest, a stubborn gesture. “I’ve got my own stuff going on.”

“And I said I’m not here to ask you to join,” Wilde says. It might’ve been a B note, but it’s not the main reason. 

“Then why are you here, Wilde?” 

“You deserved to know,” Wilde says, softly. He traces the rim of his glass with his right index finger. “They’re your friends, and you deserve to know what’s happened.” 

Zolf says nothing, just sips at his beer and avoids looking at Wilde. They sit in silence, waiting for the food to arrive, but it’s not as strained as Wilde had thought it would be. There’s nothing they need to say, not right now, and so they just sit. 

Their food comes. Zolf frowns when he sees that Wilde has only ordered from the starter list, but he says nothing and tucks into his own meal. Wilde thinks of Grizzop, of how he wouldn’t have stopped with a frown, how he’d rip into Wilde and tell him off. He thinks of Azu and how she would’ve looked so sad at him, disappointment in her eyes and the offer of something off her plate. 

Zolf says nothing at first, and they sit with each other and eat their meals. 

“Who did they take?” Zolf asks, halfway through his roast. Wilde’s mostly been stirring his soup, occasionally bringing the spoon up to his mouth, but spending more time watching the cracked pepper on the surface. 

“One of Hamid’s younger brothers. Bi Ming for Sasha. Grizzop’s partner and Azu’s brother. And they had a new member, from what I gather. Einstein says he joined them in Rome and went with them, even though he didn’t have someone to save. A paladin of Apollo, someone Bertie knew,” Wilde explains. Einstein had seemed fond of the new guy, but had also said he was thick as a brick. Wilde leaves that bit out. “And Sasha’s old tutor, it turns out. She’s been working with the University of Prague, and she helped them get to Rome.”

“Grizzop and Azu, they’re the new Rangers?” Zolf confirms. Wilde nods. 

“L.O.L.O.M.G,” he says. “Yes. Grizzop is a goblin paladin of Artemis and Azu is an orc paladin of Aphrodite.” 

“Yeesh,” Zolf laughs, leaning back in his seat. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and grins at Wilde. “Are there tensions there?” 

“A bit,” Wilde admits. “But only to begin with. On the whole, they definitely get along. They make a great team.”

“I’m sure they do,” Zolf says. 

“They’d still benefit from having you around, though,” Wilde says, and Zolf’s face drops into a scowl. 

“Drop it,” he grumbles. “You said you’re not here about that.” 

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Wilde says, and that seems to surprise Zolf more. 

“Eat up,” Zolf says instead, and Wilde looks down at his rapidly cooling soup. He takes another small mouthful, but he knows he won’t get much more in. 

“I think I’m just about done,” Wilde says. He’s had less than he told himself he would have, but the anxiety twisting in his stomach is telling him he’s had enough, so he listens to it. 

Zolf frowns and looks at him for a hard minute. “Right,” he says, “if you’re sure.” 

“I am,” Wilde says. He holds his hand up for the bill, and Zolf pushes himself to his feet. 

"Alright then. See you ‘round, Wilde. Thanks for catching me up,” and he leaves before Wilde can get another word in. 

* * *

Wilde meets Zolf at the docks the next morning, buzzing with the burnout energy of his second black coffee in a metal flask. He’s brought one for Zolf, too, and places it on the jetty next to the small boat Zolf seems to be working on. 

“Wilde?” Zolf says, squinting up at him through the rain. “Why are you still here?” 

“My ride isn’t coming for me until Sunday,” Wilde says, taking a seat on the beaten old wood of the jetty and crossing his legs atop each other. “I’ve brought you coffee.” 

Zolf takes it and opens the lid, looking inside. He frowns and looks back up at Wilde. 

“Milk or sugar?” He asks, and Wilde’s lazy grin drops. 

“You seem like a black coffee guy,” he says. 

“Well. I’m not,” Zolf grumbles, but he takes it anyway and disappears inside the cabin. It’s a small boat, so Wilde doesn’t follow. 

“How _do_ you take it, then?” Wilde calls out, raising his voice to be heard over the rain. Zolf doesn’t answer, though, instead waiting a moment to poke his head out. 

“What?” He asks. 

“Coffee,” Wilde says. “How do you take it?” 

“Bit of milk,” Zolf says after a moment of deliberation. “Maybe a little sugar.” 

“As a treat,” Wilde offers. Zolf rolls his eyes and heads back inside. 

“Sure,” he calls out behind him. 

Wilde sits, alone, and watches the waves roll in. He’s always loved the texture of droplets on water, how they seem to smooth the surface over despite their commotion. They make it look softer, somehow. His fingers itch in his lap and he wishes to sketch the scene, but the rain would only ruin his notebook and run the ink. He takes a swig from his coffee instead. 

“For Gods’ sake, Wilde. Are you coming in or what?” Zolf demands, breaking into Wilde’s train of thought. Wilde blinks down at him, wiping the rain out of his eyes. He doesn’t know why he bothers; the storm is coming down too heavily for it to matter. 

“If you’re offering,” Wilde says, slipping off the jetty and onto Zolf’s boat before he can get a response. It’s small in the cabin, but doesn’t feel as cramped as Wilde had expected. Zolf’s set it up practically; a small kitchenette, wooden dining table, little shelves and a curtain through to what Wilde assumes is a sleeping area. Unable to tamp down his curiosity, Wilde heads to the bookshelf. 

“Are these-” He starts, but Zolf cuts him off defensively. 

“I didn’t invite you in out of the rain for you to attack my taste in literature,” he grumbles, pushing Wilde into a seat. “Dry yourself off before you wreck my furniture.” 

Wilde would hardly call it literature, and starts to say as much, but then he catches the look on Zolf’s face and drops it. Instead, he cuffs the hem of his left trouser leg. 

“I can’t cast at the moment,” he admits, holding his leg out for Zolf to see. “Gonna have to dry myself the old-fashioned way.” 

Zolf’s eyes narrow as he takes this in. He comes closer, holding Wilde’s ankle up to inspect the cuffs. They’ve rubbed a rash into Wilde’s ankle, and it’s probably about time for him to switch the leg they’re on, and Zolf says nothing. His thumb brushes over the line oh-so-carefully, and Wilde curses himself out internally for the way his heart catches in his throat. It’s been a while since someone has touched him with soft hands, and he can’t just ignore the frown of concentration on Zolf’s brow, the crease lines in his frown. 

“Anti-magic,” Zolf says, more to himself than to Wilde, but Wilde nods in response. “So this’ll do nothing.” And his palms warm against Wilde’s skin but nothing else happens. 

“I’m afraid not,” Wilde confirms, pulling his leg back to himself. No amount of positive energy will do anything, not so long as Wilde’s still shackled. It feels nice, though, emotionally, to know that Zolf at least tried. 

“That explains the whole,” Zolf trails off, gesturing loosely around his face. Wilde’s hands instinctively come up to his own face, feeling his makeup running from the rain. He rolls his eyes at Zolf and huffs out a sigh. 

“I’m working on it,” he says. Zolf hums in response and turns his back to Wilde, reaching inside a small cupboard and chucking a towel to Wilde. 

“Dry yourself off before you catch your death.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Wilde grins, catching the towel and ruffling it through his hair. It dries quicker now it’s short, but still takes longer than when he had his magic. It’s his clothes that bother him the most, but he doesn’t really have an alternative, so he sucks it up and tries his best to dry them with the towel. 

“So why the anti-magic cuffs?” Zolf asks when Wilde hands the towel back to him. He’s leaning back against the small bench, one hand to brace himself as the boat rocks in the waves, the other holding the coffee Wilde brought down for him. There’s plenty of room around the table for him to join Wilde in sitting, but he stays where he is.

“Only way to stop the magic curse that’s been killing me,” Wilde says with a nonchalant shrug. “Better alive without magic than dead with it, apparently.” 

“Debatable,” Zolf says as he takes a sip of the coffee, but Wilde’s ankle is still warm from where Zolf had held him so gently that he decides to let it slip. 

“Yes, well,” he says instead. “Someone’s gotta stop the world from falling apart.” 

“And that someone’s going to be you?” Zolf asks, raising an eyebrow with practised precision. 

“That someone was meant to be the L.O.L.O.M.G team, and by extension, me, yes. But they’re… unavailable right now so I’ve got to figure out an alternative.” 

“I’ve told you,” Zolf starts.

“I know,” Wilde interrupts. “Not you, I know. But you’re here right now and I need someone to bounce ideas off. It’s not a hint.” 

“Good.” Zolf’s voice is gruff and he turns to wash the coffee down the sink. “Awful coffee, by the way.” 

“Yeah,” Wilde agrees. “So what is it that has you so busy?” 

“Gotta talk to my God,” Zolf says, finally coming to sit down opposite Wilde. “I don’t know what he wants from me.”

“And the sea is the best place for that conversation?” Wilde asks tentatively. “What if something goes wrong?” 

“I thought we could figure it out on our way to Svalbard, prove my trust and all that. Two birds one stone is how it goes, eh?”

“Svalbard?” Wilde echoes. He thinks of the seed Hamid has, of the loose plans on the horizon, and feels a spark of hope ignite. Maybe Zolf hasn’t put his mercenary days as far behind him as he believes. Maybe there’s a chance Wilde will be able to re-recruit him. 

“Dwarves,” Zolf says bluntly, squashing down Wilde’s rising hope. “I have no idea who my family was, and I have no one to ask. I figured it was as good a place to start as any.” 

“Ah,” Wilde says, and leaves it at that. “When are you heading off?” 

“As soon as you’re off my boat,” Zolf says. Wilde’s stomach plummets and he tries hard not to show it. He’s not sure he succeeds, though Zolf says nothing of it. 

“Well,” Wilde says, stumbling through his mind for a reason to keep Zolf for longer. 

“I have to finish patching her up,” Zolf says, slapping the walls of the boat twice for emphasis, “but then I want to head off after that.” 

“How long will that take?” Wilde asks, feigning indifference. Zolf considers him, one hand on top of the other in a mirror image from Wilde. 

“‘Bout a week,” he says. “Five days?” 

It’s Tuesday. Five days time lands them on Sunday. He has until Einstein comes to pick him up to convince Zolf not to go. Wilde straightens his spine, feeling it click, and leans back. The rain beats down steadily on the roof of the cabin, and Wilde can tell from the way Zolf stands back up and opens a cupboard to start tinkering that he’d beginning to outstay his welcome. 

“What work needs to be done?” Wilde asks, pulling his legs up in front of him. He may as well swap the shackles now, while he’s relatively dry and has enough privacy. He unclasps one cuff and attaches it to his left ankle, the right one remaining enclosed. 

“A leak in the roof to fix,” Zolf says. “The water tank. Wanna replace the jib. I’ve just fixed up the transom and repatched the bilge. You should’ve seen her when I got her- she’s looking much better now.”

“Quite,” Wilde affirms, having no real idea about what Zolf means. As Zolf talks, explaining the virtues of different types of wood for crafting sailboats, Wilde unclasps his right cuff and clips it into place around his left foot. He’s got thick socks on today, and pulls them up under the cuffs, hoping for a bit more protection. 

“I’m sorry,” Zolf says, a sincerity to his voice that Wilde wasn’t expecting. He looks up from his legs and Zolf meets his eyes. “I don’t know what I’d do without my magic. I can’t imagine what it’s like.” 

Wilde offers him a weak smile and stands up. It’s hard in this dwarf-sized boat, his neck tilted and shoulders hunched, but it’s not too bad. 

“It’s fine,” he assures Zolf, squeezing past him and heading to the door. 

“Wilde,” Zolf calls, just as Wilde opens the door and the rain starts to drown the voices out again. Wilde hesitates and looks back. “Good luck. With your B-Team, and your world saving. Give my best to Sasha and Hamid when you see them.” 

“Oh, Mr Smith,” Wilde says, drawing out his words. “I’m not leaving yet.” And, for good measure, he winks before stepping over the threshold and closing the door after him. 

* * *

Wilde turns up at dawn the next morning, a milkier, sweeter coffee on offer this time. He calls out to Zolf when he catches sight of him, a big elaborate wave of his free arm. Zolf ignores him until he’s within earshot. 

“You can’t leave well enough alone, can you?” He says when Wilde’s closer. 

“Of course not,” Wilde grins, handing the coffee over instead of setting it down on the jetty like he had yesterday. Zolf takes it, their hands briefly touching. Wilde counts it as progress. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Zolf, of course, doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead reaching behind him for another line of rope. He joins it up with the rope he already has and holds it in place with one hand, the other holding a threaded needle. With great care he slowly sews them together, the needle weaving in and out of the ropes as he works. Wilde watches him in silence. 

“Why are you here, Wilde?” Zolf sighs when he realises Wilde isn’t going to say anything. Wilde shrugs, leaning back on his hands. 

“Here to enjoy this lovely weather,” he jokes, tilting his face up to the sky, letting the heavy drizzle soak him through. 

Zolf scoffs and holds out a hand. “If you’re going to stick around then you can at least make yourself useful,” he says. “Hand me that wrench, will you?” 

Wilde does so, slapping it down into his waiting palm. He takes it with calloused fingers and scoots along the deck of his boat to the base of the mast. “I can be very useful,” Wilde promises him, sliding off the jetty and beside Zolf on the boat. “I’m incredibly good with my hands.” 

“Good for you,” Zolf grunts, cranking the bolt tighter. 

“Give me something to do,” Wilde says. “C’mon.” 

Zolf stops in his tracks and looks up. “Why? What are you angling at?” 

“Nothing! I’m just bored,” Wilde says, and for good measure he picks up the rope Zolf’s finished with and twists it around in his hands. 

“Stop that!” Zolf cries, leaning over and snatching it away. “Get off my boat if you’re going to be a menace. Surely there’s something better for you to be doing?” 

“I told you,” Wilde sighs, letting Zolf take back his rope. “I don’t have a way out until Sunday.” 

“Poor planning,” Zolf mutters, already engrossed again in his sail. 

“I didn’t think I’d find you so easily,” Wilde admits. “Or that you’d agree to talk with me so soon. Besides, Einstein’s a busy man.” 

“Who is this Einstein you keep mentioning?” Zolf asks. He’s not looking up as he talks, but he’s still listening, still engaged. 

“An old professor the L.O.L.O.M.G managed to befriend. He’s got a bad reputation for working with necromancers, but none of it is true. He specialises in teleportation.” 

Zolf lets out a low whistle, impressed. "You've built quite the team for yourself there, Wilde." 

"Yes, well," Wilde says. He looks up at the sky, the thick layer of fog that presses down on them and sighs. "Can I do something to help? Please?" 

Zolf puts down the tools he'd just picked up and gives Wilde an assessing look. Wilde squirms under his gaze, cracking his knuckles. Bad habit, he knows, but he's got worse. 

"You really that lost, huh?" Zolf asks, but he doesn't wait for an answer. "Alright, fine. Have you ever patched a leaky roof in the rain?"

* * *

"Thanks for your help, uh, today," Zolf says as the daylight drains from behind the clouds. The rain patters against the newly-fixed roof, and the boat sways in its port. It's nice background noise, nice background motion, and Wilde feels good after a day of being useful. 

"Thanks for letting me," Wilde replies. He stretches his arms high above his head, hearing his shoulders click as he does so, and drops them again with a sigh. "It feels good to be moving again. To have something I'm actually able to fix." 

Zolf laughs bitterly and pulls two glasses from a cabinet. "Yeah well," he says, laying them on the table and turning to a drawer. He pulls out a bottle of whiskey and pours two healthy glasses. "Gotta admit, I know the feeling." He slides one across the table and Wilde picks it up, clinking it against Zolf's. 

"To a hard day's work," he says. "Cheers." 

"Cheers," Zolf echoes, and knocks it all back in one go, before pouring out another. 

"Well, okay then," Wilde grins and copies. 

"I don't know how I feel," Zolf admits, "to be returning to the sea. We've not been talking all too much recently." 

"You and the sea?" Wilde asks. 

"Me 'n Poseidon," Zolf clarifies. Wilde nods, as though he understands- as though he could understand. 

"Yeah," Wilde murmurs. Anything louder feels like a broach of something- privacy, maybe? Like popping a bubble or shattering a glass. "How do you envision it going?" 

"No bloody clue," Zolf sighs. He pushes his arms out in front of himself, laying them flat on the table, and presses his forehead down. "How do you satisfy a god, Wilde? How do you figure out how to please them?" 

Wilde stays quiet for a moment, the rhythmic drum of the rain a comfort. "Guess and check?" He offers, and drains his second glass. It burns. It's been a while since he's had something alcoholic to drink- usually too busy reading and writing and researching for downtime. He's missed it, a glass of something with a friend. 

"Guess and check? Good thing you're not a cleric then, huh?" Zolf says, lifting his head to give Wilde a lopsided grin. Wilde grins back. 

"Yeah," he says. "I guess it is." 

They sit in silence for a while, and it's comfortable in a way it never really was between the two of them. Wilde knows Zolf's got plans to keep moving, and he knows he's got his own plans to bring Zolf back with him, but he's not sure how the next few days are going to play out. He's half been hoping Zolf would hear about Bertie and the Rome incident and jump back on board, but he realises now he had nothing all that much to base that on. An expired memory, a jaded hope, pure optimism. He hadn't realised how much Zolf had changed in such a short amount of time, how much Zolf had needed to change. 

He looks up at the man sat across from him and catches his eyes. Zolf tucks his top lip and and widens his eyes, pulling a silly face. Wilde raises an eyebrow back at him. 

"Gods," Zolf sighs, laughing a little under his breath. "Maybe this is hitting me harder than I thought it was." 

Wilde laughs, too, and reaches for more. 

“How come I can feel it already but you can't?” Zolf asks, a whine edging into his voice. “You barely even eat!” 

“I eat,” Wilde says, defensively holding his hands to his chest. “It’s not like that.” 

“Then what is it like?” Zolf asks, levelling Wilde with a fixed gaze. Wilde blinks and looks away. 

“It doesn’t always stay down,” he says quietly, right hand coming back out to steady his glass as the boat sways with the ocean. “I’m just taking preventative measures.” 

“Is that a curse thing?” Zolf asks, his boot tipping forward so his toe nudges at Wilde’s shackles. Wilde draws his leg back in and tucks it under his body, out of the way. 

“No,” he sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think it’s a stress thing.” 

“The world is not your responsibility, Wilde,” Zolf says gently. Wilde blinks, lingers on the moment with his eyes still shut, before opening them again. He’s not as sober as Zolf seems to think he is, but he doesn’t mention it. “If you need to take a step back…” He trails off, opting instead to take another swig of wine. 

“I don’t,” Wilde promises. “I’m fine, I- I can handle it.” 

“You shouldn’t have to, is all,” “Zolf says, his head tipping back and thudding into the window above his seat. 

“Zolf,” Wilde sighs. 

“Wilde,” Zolf sighs back. 

"I should go," Wilde says. He stands, stumbling slightly, but regains his balance quickly. It's the boat's movement that tips him, and he's certain Zolf knows that, but it doesn't stop him from grinning. 

"Steady on, solider," he says. Wilde grunts at him. 

Outside, the rain is colder than Wilde was hoping it'd be. He's drenched to the bone within moments, his clothes doing nothing to help. Grumbling to himself, he pulls his jacket tighter around his front. He makes his way down the jetty, careful on the slippery wood, but now that he's back on solid ground he finds it's not that hard. When he reaches the cobbled wharf he turns around, casting a parting glance at Zolf's boat. It sways with the waves, the pale light coming from inside glowing like sunshine. Wilde can do this, he can figure something out. He can make it work.

* * *

Wilde’s crouched, hunched over his notebooks with a cup of tea steaming beside him, rain hammering down on the windows, in a small cafe overlooking the docks. He’s not going to visit Zolf today, he’s decided. He hasn’t figured out the best way to push his agenda, and he doesn’t want to push his luck with it, so he thinks giving the man some space for a day might be best. Instead, he filled his morning with a trip to the market to pick up a few supplies, and then to somewhere with enough background noise for him to be able to concentrate on reading through the information he’s got so far, trying to decide who could join his B-Team. He’s caught up in his work, papers strewn all about him: notes from Damascus, from Prague, from back in Paris. He’s been trying to make head and tail of it for a couple of hours this afternoon, but he keeps hitting a wall. He knows, logically, that he needs a break before he can make progress. But there’s a small voice in his head that’s screaming at him not to stop until he’s gotten so far. It’s getting harder and harder to drown out these days. He’s too occupied to notice when Zolf walks in, doesn’t realise he has company until Zolf clears his throat and sits down opposite him.

“Zolf,” Wilde says dumbly. 

“Wilde,” Zolf returns. His gaze flickers down to Wilde’s books before coming back up to rest on his face. 

“What is it, Zolf?” Wilde asks, glancing back down to cover up anything confidential. There’s nothing all that substantial there, and besides, it’s Zolf. He leaves the papers be. 

“I just thought I’d let you know I’ve finished up on the boat. I’ll be heading out at first light tomorrow.” He says it so calmly, as if he hasn’t just shattered Wilde and spilt him across the floor. “Common courtesy, you know?” 

“Tomorrow?” Wilde repeats, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “No, that’s not- you said five days. That's only three.” 

“So? What’s it matter to you?” 

What does it matter to him? Why did he do this, pin his future on someone with different goals, someone who explicitly doesn’t like him? Wilde clenches his jaw, breathing slowly through his nose. He’s not going to lose it, not here, not now. 

“I don’t know, I just-” He cuts himself off with a huff and starts to shuffle his papers into a haphazard pile. “I just thought we had more time.” 

“More time for what?” Zolf asks, tracking all of Wilde’s movements with a frown. “Time for what, Wilde?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Wilde says, standing up and slipping out from his chair. It’s coming down in buckets out there, and if he doesn’t pack away his papers they’ll be sodden beyond salvation. Wilde scowls and stops to shove them into his satchel. 

“Right,” Zolf says slowly. “Did you think you’d be able to recruit me or something?” 

“No!” Wilde snaps, because it’s the truth, down to the bone. He stayed around, went out of his way to spend time with him, telling himself it was to convince Zolf to come. But that goes against everything he knows about the man. If Zolf’s set his eyes due North, then by Gods that is where he’s headed. So why did he fool himself so long? What was he honestly expecting? 

“Wilde,” Zolf says. It’s just a name, just a word, but Wilde gets it completely. He slumps back down in his seat, head in hands. 

“I don’t know, okay, Zolf. I’ve lost my team and it could be _weeks_ before they come back. I’ve hit a wall without them and my leads are all drying up. I’m magicless and useless and there’s nowhere logical for me to go. There’s no one I trust and there’s nothing for me to do. Maybe I’ve just run out of steam,” he admits quietly, a secret told to his hands. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see how Zolf reacts. 

“Well,” Zolf says eventually. “Not quite no one. You trust me, don’t you?” 

Fundamentally, yes, Wilde does. That’s how he’s made it through this far in good form, how he hasn’t run out just quite yet. But- “That’s the goddamn problem, Zolf. You’re off now, too,” Wilde mutters. It feels selfish and sharp in his mouth, too close to emotional blackmail for comfort, but Wilde isn’t big enough to acknowledge that right now. 

“I’m not staying for you, Wilde,” and it’s both a relief and an agony to hear, but Zolf isn’t done yet. “But,” he continues, “you could come with me?” 

It’s because Wilde is lonely and there’s no one else, it’s because deep down, below that gruff scorn and sulky moods, Zolf, to his core, cares about his people. And somehow, despite it all, Wilde is one of his people now. He’s a liability and they set each other off, but Zolf has compassion and Wilde has a selfish greed. He doesn’t have the pride to refuse this offer, not this time. He needs hope, he needs a reason, he needs something to cling to before he loses grip completely. And if Zolf is going to even allude to offering it then Wilde will take it with bleeding hands. 

“To Svalbard?” Wilde confirms. It’ll be a couple of weeks, time in which the L.O.L.O.M.G might return. Weeks in which he could investigate the adamantine shippings. That’s almost a month Wilde could spend losing himself to dead ends and burnout. It hurts to think about, but this could be what he needs. 

“Well,” Zolf says, trying to shrug it off nonchalantly, but unable to suppress the tension in his shoulders. “That seed’s gotta be somewhere on your list, right?” 

It’s the way he’s phrased it so Wilde can claim some form of dignity, it’s in the extended hand as Wilde falls to his knees. Wilde looks up and looks Zolf in the eye. 

“Yes,” he says. 

And for now, that seems to be it. 

* * *

Just as Zolf said, they set out at first light. The boat is small for the two of them; it was retrofitted for a dwarf, designed to be manned by one person. But Wilde doesn’t get claustrophobic, and Zolf likes to sit out in the open air with the sail, so it doesn’t feel too bad. 

He has left a note for Einstein with the inn clerk, a message to say he won’t be reachable for a couple of weeks, to try Longyearbyen in a month’s time. He’ll hopefully have the LOLOMG by then, and maybe they can have a week or two of rest by the time Wilde shows up with a new mission for them. He’ll figure that out when it happens. He was hesitant to bring his paperwork onboard, but he made a spare copy in Atsugi and the prospect of spending a couple of weeks without it sets his hands trembling, so he takes what he has and boards Zolf’s boat, Spirit. 

“Do you know much about sailing?” Zolf asks as they make their way out of the harbour. Wilde laughs and shakes his head. He’s got the doors to the cabin open, but he’s staying inside to keep himself dry. 

“Nothing,” Wilde says. That’s not entirely true- he knows a few decent knots and could name half a dozen parts, but he’s never helped sail and he can’t read the water. As far as helping Zolf goes, however, Wilde knows he is useless. 

“Once I teach you the basics we’ll be able to take shifts on watch at night,” Zolf says. Wilde tilts his head at him. 

“What was your original plan?” He asks. “Before you asked me to join?” 

“First off, I didn’t ask you to join me. I just offered. There’s a difference,” Zolf huffs. “Second, I can cure fatigue.” 

“For weeks on end?” Wilde asks incredulously. He knows he’s not exactly one to reprimand someone else’s sleep schedule, but that just seems a little excessive. 

“If it all goes well with Poseidon then I won't need to be as vigilant at night,” Zolf says. 

“And if it doesn’t?” Wilde prompts.

“Then we’ll have bigger problems on our plate than being tired,” Zolf points out.

“Gods, Zolf,” Wilde groans. “Is this some sort of suicide mission?”

“Not if I play my cards right,” Zolf says, sounding much too chipper for Wilde’s liking.

* * *

Zolf doesn’t sleep for the first two nights, opting instead to cure his fatigue as it creeps up on him. 

“Someone's gotta keep her afloat,” he says when Wilde presses him about it.

“Then show me the ropes,” Wilde says with an elaborate grin, basking in the frustration on Zolf’s face. 

“I will,” Zolf mutters, “once we clear the bad weather.” 

The rain has been easing off since they left the shore, and Zolf reckons it’ll only be a day or two until they reach clear skies. 

“I _can’t_ handle the rain,” Wilde says, all fake earnestness. “I’ll melt.” 

“Okay! Fine!” Zolf exclaims. “Get your arse up here and I’ll show you a few things.” 

Wilde laughs, tightening his jacket around his shoulders, and doesn’t move. 

“I’m serious,” Zolf says. “If you’re gonna be a twat about it then you can get up ‘ere and be useful.” 

Wilde groans, performative and dramatic, but pulls his hood up over his head and joins Zolf in the rain. 

“This,” Zolf says, gesturing to the main sail, “is the main sail.” 

Yep,” Wilde says. 

“And here we have-” 

“The boom, yes. C’mon, Zolf, give me something more.” 

“Fine! Just don’t tell me I’m moving too quickly or I will be throwing you overboard,” Zolf huffs, and Wilde scoots in closer so he can see exactly what Zolf’s doing. 

As it turns out, Zolf’s a good teacher. He’s awkward with his praise, but he’s clear with his instructions and his feedback is always constructive. 

* * *

The first time Wilde really gets it, he’s manning the sails with Zolf up on the deck with him, too, but reading his book. Wilde’s not really doing much, just loose supervision, but it gives Zolf the chance to really switch off and just wind down for a few minutes. Wilde wants to hum to himself, but he hasn’t tried to sing since losing his magic, and he doesn’t want to be disappointed with the lack of feeling now that singing will just be singing. So he sits in silence and watches the waves roll under the boat. 

“Wilde,” Zolf calls after a decent amount of time. “Winds are changing.” 

Wilde’s started to notice that, too, so he shifts aside for Zolf to take the reins. But, to his surprise, Zolf shakes his head at him. 

“Change to match it,” Zolf says, staying where he is. “You’ve got this, Wilde. See if you can catch the wind.” 

Wilde nods at him, concentrating on what Zolf’s taught him over the past couple of days. Carefully, he looks from side to side, turning his head until he can feel the wind evenly in each ear. The wind’s coming in at the starboard quarter, around 5 o’clock. A broad reach, verging on a run. Wilde grins to himself, swinging the boom out for the sail to catch the wind. He lets it out until it flaps, just a wee bit, and then pulls it tight just enough so it’s full of air. He feels it tighten as it catches, and the boat picks up, gliding across the surface of the ocean as though it were powered by a fully controllable elemental. 

“Zolf!” Wilde cries out in delight. He’s grinning from ear to ear, giddy with the euphoria of the flying vessel as it sails under his command. 

“You’ve got it!” Zolf calls back, and Wilde doesn’t look up from the sails but he can hear Zolf’s grin, too, plain as day. 

“I think I get it now,” Wilde says once Zolf’s taken control again and the winds have settled down. “The thrill of sailing.” 

Zolf laughs at him. “It’s a high risk, high reward game,” he says. Wilde scans the horizon, its vastness, and nods. The clouds are rolling in thick and heavy from the east, and while Zolf says he doesn’t think the rain will reach them, Wilde can feel the danger in the air. 

“It sure is,” he agrees, and leaves it there.

* * *

Wilde sleeps, briefly, in fits no more than three hours at a time. He’s become used to the dizziness now, but it's still an unpleasant feeling. Zolf's taken to hounding him for a better sleep schedule.

“It'd be easier if I could cure your fatigue, too. Can’t have you falling overboard,” he says one morning as they both sit on the deck, watching the pale sunlight rise over the horizon. “Too much effort to drag you back in.” 

But then Zolf presses a warm cup of tea into Wilde’s hands as he blanks out at their table, or he turns down the bed before heading up to the deck for the night, and Wilde tries not to get too soft about it. 

“I think you’d like this one,” Zolf says one evening, sliding one of his novels across the table to him. Wilde looks up from his papers and glances at the cover. The font is a deep blue and there’s a muscled man walking out of the water, his shirt unbuttoned down to the navel. _The Son Of A Rogue_ , it says, _Harrison Campbell_. Wilde scoffs and slides it back.

“I’m busy, Zolf,” he says, tapping his pen to his lip as he tries to concentrate. The boat rocks, not too heavily, but enough to make Wilde’s stomach lurch, and he balls his left hand into a fist. 

“You haven’t turned the page or written anything in half an hour,” Zolf points out. “I think you need a break.” 

“These dots aren’t going to connect themselves,” Wilde bites back. “I think you need to mind your own.” 

“Whoa,” Zolf says, standing up. “Maybe time for bed, huh.” He edges his way out of the bench and into the bedroom. Wilde lets him go without looking up, fanning the corners of the papers with his thumb. They’re tattered and dogeared from his fidgeting, but he’s hit so many walls he feels like a sledgehammer. Sighing deep from within, Wilde slumps down on the table, forehead creasing the papers. He doesn’t care anymore. 

“Are you coming?” Zolf calls out. He hasn’t drawn the curtain and Wilde is surprised to see him looking at him. 

“What?” 

“To bed,” Zolf clarifies. “Are you coming?” 

_No_ , Wilde thinks. They haven’t yet both been asleep at the same time. They’d slipped so seamlessly into a rhythm that it hadn’t actually crossed Wilde’s mind that they’d ever need to share. They’ve both got awful sleep schedules, and he thinks it eases both their minds to have someone up around the clock. But Zolf looks at him now, uncharacteristically patient, predictably stubborn. Wilde blanks on what to say. 

“Mr Smith,” Wilde says coyly, leaning back in his chair, angling his body on display to Zolf in the most flirtatious way he can. “Are you asking-” 

“Wilde,” Zolf interrupts. “We both need some goddamn sleep. If you run yourself into the ground I can't even help you with it. Get in here before I have to drag you in.” 

Wilde glances back at his papers. Zolf’s right- he’s going nowhere, he needs a break. But he shouldn’t, not yet, not when there’s so much progress he still needs to make- 

“Wilde,” Zolf snaps, and Wilde looks back to him. “Hurry up.” 

“Alright,” Wilde sighs, defeated. He half-heartedly shuffles the papers into a pile, caps his pen, and heads to the bed. It’s not so much a bedroom as it is a cubby fitted with a mattress and blankets, a small curtain for privacy. It’s not big, but there’s enough room for him to crawl in beside Zolf and lay there without having to brush up into his personal space.

“Happy now?” He asks petulantly, rucking the blanket up around his shoulders and turning his back on Zolf. 

“Thrilled,” Zolf replies, completely deadpan. Wilde smiles despite himself, but doesn’t let on. He closes his eyes, reviewing what he knows so far of their mission. It’s been six days since leaving Scotland. He knows he’s not going to hear from Einstein until they reach land, but knowing is always different from experiencing, and Wilde is somehow surprised by how stirred he’s feeling. He’s desperate to know if his team has made it back, and he wants to be able to have figured out more of the big picture for them when they return. 

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Zolf grumbles. Wilde rolls over and looks up at him. He can’t see anything for the darkness of nighttime inside a vessel, but he can feel from the weight in the mattress and the way the blanket falls that Zolf is still sitting up. 

“I’m fine,” Wilde dismisses, but something rustles and Zolf clears his throat. 

“I’m gonna read to you. Shut up,” he says. Wilde says nothing, just waits. “ _The rooftops squatted low against the city skyline, swathed in shadows and people no one ever truly could know_ ,” Zolf reads, his voice smooth and melodic. Wilde’s eyes drift shut to the sound, and he finds his body sinking into the bed. He’s listening, and maybe he’s almost enjoying the mindless plot and two-dimensional characters. The waves rocking the boat tune out into peaceful movement, and before Wilde can even register it, he’s asleep and dreaming of finding love in unexpected places.

* * *

Zolf gets up before Wilde, squeezing past him and out through the curtain. He’s quiet and careful not to wake him, but Wilde hasn’t shared a bed in a long time now, and it’s hard to not be hyper-aware of Zolf as he leaves. 

“Zolf,” he says, voice thick with sleep. Zolf hesitates just outside the curtain. 

“Wilde,” he says back, but Wilde doesn’t really have anything else to say, so he rolls over and tries to drift off again. He’s pretty sure he’s still awake when he feels the blanket being pulled up over his shoulders. It’s easy enough to fall back to sleep. 

* * *

“Good morning,” Zolf says when Wilde makes it out of bed and into the main cabin. He makes an elaborate show of checking the sun out of the window and fixes his statement. “Or should I say afternoon?” 

Wilde follows his gaze and can clearly see it’s early morning. He scowls at Zolf and sits down opposite him. “Hilarious.” 

Zolf grins to himself and slides a bowl of oats across the table to Wilde. Wilde takes it with one hand, the other fishing around for his documents from last night. They’re not in the neat pile he left them in, stacked on the end of the bench against the wall. 

“Zolf, did you move my-” 

“Yes,” Zolf cuts him off. “You’re not working at meal time.” 

“What?” Wilde frowns up at him. 

“I’m serious,” Zolf says. “Eat first. Then work later if you have to.” 

“I don’t need handling, Zolf,” Wilde grumbles, pushing his bowl to the side. That was clearly the wrong thing to do, though, because Zolf squares his shoulders and slumps down opposite him, pushing the bowl back into place. 

“Then look after yourself so I don’t have to,” he retorts.

“I’m not your child,” Wilde mutters petulantly. The irony of acting so childish while he says this is not lost on him, and he turns his nose up.

“Sure,” Zolf says. “But when you burn yourself out and have nowhere to go you’ll be my problem, so forgive me for taking preemptive measures.”

Wilde says nothing, just takes a deep breath in through his nose and blows it out through pursed lips. He picks up his spoon and starts to eat. 

“So how did you sleep?” Zolf asks awkwardly after a stretch of silence. Wilde shrugs. 

“Fine.” 

“Good,” Zolf says. He twiddles his thumbs. “Good.”

Wilde continues to say nothing, opting instead to chomp down on his oatmeal. He wants to do it grumpily, but it’s hard when Zolf’s added dried fruit and cinnamon to it. He was really going to only have a couple of bites and make his excuses to leave, but it’s quite good and not too heavy, so Wilde finds himself eating spoonful after spoonful. At this, at least, Zolf seems to ease up. 

“How’d you sleep?” Wilde asks once the food starts settling in. 

“Yeah, fine. Didn’t fall asleep as quickly as you did, but yeah. Fine.” 

Wilde smirks, leaning back in his seat. He’s polished off the bowl, and Zolf moves to refill it but Wilde waves him away. It was good, and he can admit he needed it, but he couldn’t handle more right now. “I think it was the book,” he explains. “Couldn’t stay awake for it.” 

Oh, shut it, you,” Zolf huffs. “There’s nothing wrong with it! And besides, we barely got in the first chapter before you were snoring like an old man.” 

“A bored old man,” Wilde jibes. “A bored old man desperate for anything but a Harrison Campbell.” 

“Oi, watch it,” Zolf scoffs. “You wouldn’t be the first man I’ve thrown overboard for bashing on Harrison Campbell.” 

Wilde raises his eyebrows. That sounds like a joke, but none of the tells he’s learnt to read recently are giving Zolf away, and when he doesn’t back down Wilde reconsiders. “Really?” He asks, and Zolf nods with a smug satisfaction. 

“Aye,” he grins. “And don’t you start on my height, we both know I’m bigger where it counts, I could easily take you.”

“Oh my, Mr Smith,” Wilde all but purrs, but he gets no real response from Zolf, just the same unchanged stare. “Do you have any idea how dirty that sounded?” 

“Of course I know. I may be- Just because I don’t- I’m not a child, Wilde. I still _get_ it.” Zolf huffs, folding his arms tight across his chest. Wilde blinks at him. 

“Because of what?” He asks, tilting his head slightly. Zolf scowls. 

“You know,” he says, and Wilde absolutely does not know. 

“No, I absolutely do not know,” he tells him. Zolf rolls his eyes. 

“Just because I don’t _do_ sex doesn’t mean I don’t get dirty jokes,” he manages to grit out. 

“You don’t do sex,” Wilde repeats slowly. This is all news to him. This is probably the most personal thing Zolf has ever disclosed, but Wilde doesn’t know how to keep the conversation alive and open. 

“No,” Zolf says, firmly. “Well, I do, but I- It doesn’t matter.” 

“Wait, Zolf. It does matter,” Wilde says, reaching out a hand before realising what he’s doing and catching himself. “I’m sorry.” 

That gets him, catches him by surprise. Zolf takes a couple of moments before saying anything. 

“Sorry for what?” 

“The jokes,” Wilde says. “All the comments, the passes. All of it, I guess.” 

“You were joking,” Zolf says with a shrug. “You were never- You never meant any of it, right?” 

Wilde shrugs this time. He’s tempted to blow it off and lie, but they’re being honest, now. He doesn’t want to ruin the trust. “I mean, if you had taken me up I wouldn’t have said no. But yes, they were meant as light-hearted jokes.” 

“Exactly,” Zolf says, breezing right past Wilde’s admission. “You’ve never made me uncomfortable, Wilde.” 

“Good,” Wilde breathes. It’s a relief to hear, reassuring to get that clarification. “I promise it was never my intention to make you uncomfortable.” 

“I know,” Zolf smiles, reaching over to awkwardly pat his hand. Wilde lets him, saying nothing. “The real problem I have with you right now is your inability to let yourself enjoy a decent novel.” 

“Oh, Gods,” Wilde groans, dropping his head into his hands. But it’s a joke, a light hearted tease, and they’re back on equal footing. He smiles where he knows Zolf can’t see, and lets him rant. 

* * *

“You know what tonight needs?” Wilde says as Zolf clears their little table. He’s made dinner again, like every other night, somehow transforming their rations into something semi decent. He places the plates in their little sink and leans over to the bookshelf, a finger tracing over the spines of his Campbells. 

“ _A Touch of Fancy_?” Zolf suggests, pulling one of them out and setting it down on the table in front of Wilde. Wilde picks it up and looks at the cover. A heroine running through a jungle in a tattered red dress. They haven’t finished the other one, the one about the rogue’s son, but Wilde can’t let Zolf know he’s actually invested now. Instead, he smirks and raises an eyebrow at him. 

“No,” he says. “Not at all. I was going to say music.” 

“Oh?” Zolf looks up at that, surprise framing his face. The boat sways in the gentle waves. It’s been a calm day, and it’s looking to be a calm night, but Wilde knows Zolf will go to bed first and he will stay up just in case, and they’ll swap places at some stage after the moon has risen. 

“It’s been a while,” Wilde says, trailing off. He looks over to the bench Zolf was sitting at, the bench under which his guitar has been stored away. He’s bought it on a whim back in Edinburgh, seeing it in a small stall and finding himself unable to turn away. They had one growing up, him and his sister, and she’d been so wonderful with it. She’d tried to teach him a few basic chords, but Wilde was a restless and impatient kid, and never could sit still long enough for anything like that to stick. 

“Not since,” Zolf starts, looking down to Wilde’s cuffs. Wilde nods. He hasn’t sung for magic since then, but he hasn’t sung for pleasure in a lot longer. It’d be nice to revisit it. 

“Not since ever, for the guitar,” Wilde says, and Zolf lifts up the cushions and opens the bench. He brings the guitar out with more care than Wilde would have, but the effort is appreciated. 

“Really?” Zolf asks with raised eyebrows. “Then why did you buy it?” 

Wilde shrugs, taking it off Zolf and fitting it into his lap. He places his fingers on the strings, as he remembers his sister telling him to as kids, and gives a tentative strum. It sounds… like a guitar. He’s not sure what he expected, but he didn’t think it’d feel this bland. He frowns. 

“Good song,” Zolf says. “I think I recognise it from somewhere.” 

“Yes, yes,” Wilde sighs, scratching a hand through his hair. He hates it like this, hates it short more for what it represents than actually how it looks or feels. A surge of frustration courses through him but he tamps it down, taking one hand off the guitar and pressing it into his knee. The pressure is solid, affirming. Right. 

He takes his hands, again, and brings them back to the instrument. He’ll try again. He can do this. 

He strums, the chord sounding familiar and right, and strums again a couple of times to get a feel for it. He feels the outline of a smile twitch on his lips and hums a note to match it. That comes more easily, and he feels some tension slip off his shoulders and wash away with the waves that so calmly rock the boat. 

“I’m getting a feel for it,” Wilde explains defensively, but Zolf’s not at his throat about it. He’s leaning back on his bench, eyes shut, hands folded on his belly. He looks sweet, peaceful. Wilde smiles at him and looks back down at his hands. If he closes his eyes he can picture Claire’s eight year old hands on the neck of her guitar, telling him where to put his fingers. He tries to copy the fleeting image of a memory from a lifetime ago, fingers braced almost into a cramp, and strums. It’s not right, and he winces, muttering curses under his breath. Zolf pops an eye open to look at him, but says nothing and closes it again. 

“Not that one,” Wilde mutters to himself, and Zolf hums in agreement. He tries again, moving his ring finger to press down on a different string. The A string, he thinks, although the theory of music never really stuck with him like the rhythm did. 

It sounds God-awful, and Wilde flinches back from it like it’s poisoned. 

“Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, pushing the guitar to the side. Zolf watches him with wide eyes but says nothing. Wilde takes a deep breath in through his nose, holds it for a couple of heartbeats, then out through his mouth. Again. And again. Then he shakes his head and reaches back for his guitar. 

“We could always just read,” Zolf suggests, the Campbell already in hand. 

“No.” Wilde says firmly. “I’m going to get this right. I have to get this right.” 

“Okay,” Zolf says, and nods just the once. He places his book back down on the table and waits with more patience that Wilde has ever really seen in him. 

Wilde fumbles with the guitar until it’s comfortably in position, and arranges his hands back into position of that first chord. Breathing in through his nose, he hesitates, then out through his mouth as he strums down on the strings. It’s wrong, again, and Wilde clenches his jaw. 

“Wilde,” Zolf says, and Wilde snaps his head up to look at him. “Maybe we should give it a break for tonight, huh?” 

Wilde knows Zolf’s right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear. He grits his teeth harder and begs himself not to turn red- or, God forbid, tear up. He can do this. He’s a bard, music is his essence. Just because his magic has gone doesn’t mean his music has to, either, right? 

Except, clearly, it does. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, it won’t sound right, and it’s so goddamn hard. It's unfair. This whole damn thing is unfair. 

“Wilde, hey,” Zolf says, his voice simultaneously sounding too close yet too far. “Oscar.” 

_Oscar_. That can’t be good. 

“I’m fine,” Wilde grits out, not looking up. Zolf scoffs at him. 

“No you’re not,” he says. “And _that’s_ fine. But no, _you_ are not.” 

“I am,” Wilde hisses out, dropping his guitar to wipe desperately at his face. 

“Hey, it’s just a guitar,” Zolf says, oddly calm. “You’ve never been a guitar person, you said it yourself.” 

“But I’ve always been a music person,” Wilde snaps. “And a magic user, and a writer. And it’s gone, all of it, and now I’m left with,” he gestures vaguely to himself, “this. I can’t do a single bloody thing right anymore.” 

“You’re a fine helmsman,” Zolf says. “Your tacking is coming along well.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Wilde spits, more sarcasm than venom. “But all that is nothing if that’s where it ends. If anything actually happened you know as well as I do that I’d be useless.” 

“You are more than your ability to cast magic, Wilde,” Zolf growls in response, his fist thumping down on the table. 

“Am I? Am I _really_ , Zolf?” 

“Yes,” Zolf says, so adamantly, so strongly that for just a moment, Wilde is tempted to believe him. But he can’t. 

“Fuck you and your pity,” Wilde snarls, pushing himself up from the table and heading outside. Zolf stands up, too, but Wilde shoots him a glare. “Give me a fucking break. 

Zolf slumps back to the table, and Wilde slams the door behind him. 

The sea is uncomfortably calm. It feels like a betrayal, a mockery of Wilde’s temper and how he lost it. The moon hasn’t risen yet, and the stars glow almost unnaturally bright. He gets it, sort of, the call of the ocean. How it spreads endlessly out in every direction. They’re alone out here, him and Zolf. It really is just the two of them. Wilde sighs, slumping down on the deck. It’s cold tonight. They’re so far north, and while the sea is calm, there’s still a chill on the breeze that washes over him. Without the adrenaline spiking him into action, Wilde can feel his environment just that much more. He tucks his knees up to his chest, arms hugging them close, and rests his cheek on top. The starlight glitters out in front of him, catching on the slight crests as the waves move around him. The boat sways in a comforting motion, and spent from his little outburst, Wilde closes his eyes. 

He knows he doesn’t sleep, but he doesn’t know how much time has passed when the hatch to the door clicks open and he looks up to see Zolf’s face poking out. 

“Room for another?” He asks, not bothering to wait for a response. 

“Zolf,” Wilde sighs, rubbing his face and sitting up straight. He crosses his legs beneath him, ignoring his cuffs digging into his flesh. “I’m sorry, I was out of line.” 

“You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately,” Zolf says slowly, and Wilde wants to laugh in his face, make some sarcastic retort, but he doesn’t want to ruin this- not anymore than he already has, so he bites his tongue. “I can’t imagine what it’s like, losing your magic. I can’t think of who I’d be without it.” 

“You’d still be you,” Wilde says firmly, scooting to the side so Zolf can sit next to him. Zolf does so, laying Wilde’s guitar down next to him as he settles in. He’s brought a blanket with him, and he loops it over Wilde’s shoulders. Wilde lifts an arm, inviting Zolf to huddle into his side. To Wilde’s surprise, he actually does. “You’d still love the sea, and read your Campbells, and care for your friends even when they don’t deserve your support.” 

“And you’re still you, Wilde,” Zolf says quietly, and Wilde is so very tired. “You still make those gods awful puns, and you still carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, despite it not being your responsibility. You still try and you still fight, and you still refuse to stand by and watch, despite how useless you feel.” 

Wilde huffs something too bitter to be a laugh, but Zolf seems to get it and pats his knee. 

“It’s really, really hard, Zolf,” he says. Zolf nods next to him. 

“Yeah. But here you still are.” 

Wilde hums, and they fall back into silence. It’s softer around the edges this time, and warm where Zolf’s flank is pressed against his own.

“And when you’re ready,” Zolf says, after almost too much time has passed, “you can try again.” He taps the guitar where it sits beside him. “But only when you’re ready.”

* * *

He tries it again a few nights later. It feels easier in the dark, the practising and the mistakes washing away with the waves, never truly illuminated like they would have been in the stark daylight. 

He sits with Zolf above deck, the moonlight washing over them, and as he soaks it all in he realises this is the kind of moment in which he would just sing. Not for magic, not for use, but just to express himself, a release. His tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth, and it’s so quiet up here tonight that he doesn’t want to break it by clearing his throat, so instead he reaches over Zolf and picks up the guitar. Zolf watches him with curiosity, but says nothing. 

He starts easy, fingers pressing into the strings to form the chord he remembers best. A gentle strum, and the music fills the quiet air. It sounds right, Wilde thinks, and he tentatively strums it again. He can see, out of the corner of his eye, Zolf smile. Closing his eyes and allowing himself to feel it, Wilde hums out the note. This is easier, this is where his natural ability comes in. He knows he’s got a good voice without magic, it’s something that has always been his. He hums again, a small melody to carry the chord, and opens his eyes again to see Zolf turning his head with a gentle nod. 

The next chord isn’t the one he was aiming for, but he hums along to it, managing to balance it out with a sound that fits. 

“There ya go,” Zolf encourages. Wilde strums again, back to the first chord he nailed, and with it he sings. 

He doesn’t sing of words, just closes his eyes and lets the tune spill out of his mouth. The sea air is cold against his skin, ruffling his collar and slipping below his shirt. His whole being moves with the boat, which moves with the ocean, which moves with the currents of life and the music that ties it all together. Wilde can’t feel his magic anymore, but he can feel the life that carries with a tune, and he can feel his heartbeat in his neck, pulse thrumming in his veins. He sings, louder, daring to change the positioning of his hands as he strums again. His voice changes with it, flowing like a river to the sea, second nature to him. It’s invigorating, and he opens his eyes to grin at Zolf, who is already smiling softly at him. 

“Atta boy,” Zolf says, and Wilde can barely hear him over his own voice, but he doesn’t miss the quirk of his lips as he says it, and the spark in his eyes. 

* * *

It’s not that Wilde is the most observant man alive, but Zolf explicitly told him he was heading out on this pilgrimage to seek solace from his god. And Wilde hasn’t seen any of that. There’s been a quick prayer here, an expression of gratitude for calm seas there, but Zolf hasn’t acknowledged the proverbial elephant in the room, and Wilde is only too aware that they’re getting further and further away from land. It’s not that Wilde doesn’t trust their confrontation to go well, it’s just that Wilde doesn’t trust Poseidon. He doesn’t trust the Spirit to stay afloat, and he doesn't trust his own ability to survive, especially without magic. 

But Zolf doesn’t bring it up, and Wilde doesn’t want to press, so it goes unsaid and Wilde tries his best not to let it eat him up. 

He fails. He fails because no matter which way it’s spun, it is actually his business. It’s his life on the line, too, and while he doesn’t fear his own death, he does fear the destruction of the world. If he’s going to die it needs to be for a reason, for a purpose, not just because the god of the sea was angry to lose a cleric. But Zolf doesn’t acknowledge it and it’s not Wilde’s faith in questioning, so he sits on his hands and waits and waits and waits, and lets it gnaw on his bones. 

* * *

“How does it feel ,” Zolf asks him, out of the blue one afternoon. It’s cold up on the deck, but once they cleared the coast their journey has been unsettling calm. It feels like a rubber band pulled tight, tension before something snaps, something fires out. Wilde tries not to think about it, focusing instead on Zolf. “ To sing without your magic?”

Wilde doesn’t answer right away. How _does_ it feel? He used to hear music in everything. Not just songs, but the earth’s heartbeat pulsing through everything around him, the ground cracking open with a rhythm he can scarcely remember. He remembers that he used to feel it in his veins, in the air cycling through his body, but he doesn’t actually remember what it felt like. The knowing is different from the feeling, and Wilde’s starting to realise he might not ever get to know that again. And if that’s the case, it’s not even that bad an ending; the stakes are higher, now. His magic, relatively, does not matter. 

“Hollow,” he says, because he can’t put it into words. “It feels… flat. Like maybe I’m not singing in the right time, or something is off key but I’m not sure which note it is. It feels.. Like a bad fit.” 

Zolf doesn’t respond, his eyes on the horizon, hand on the boom. There are clouds forming far off, but they’re thin and white, and miles beyond their course. 

“But it feels better than not singing at all,” Wilde continues. Finding his voice these past few days has been refreshing in ways he hadn’t realised he’d needed. Like he had been holding his breath all this time, but it turns out the air is safe to breathe. “It’s still a part of me, the music, even if the magic is gone.” 

“The other night you said you weren’t you anymore.” 

“Well,” Wilde sighs, “you know how prone I am to an exaggeration.” 

“I think you’re still you. Undeniably you, Wilde,” Zolf says, and this time he does turn to catch Wilde’s eye, to drive home his sincerity. Wilde doesn’t know what to do with it, how to put it down without breaking it. 

“I know we haven’t always gotten along, Mr Smith,” Wilde says, “but that was rather cruel.” 

“Shut up, Wilde, I’m trying to have a moment here,” Zolf sighs, looking away again. Wilde’s more comfortable like this, he doesn’t like the intensity of heavy eye contact, but he’s disappointed with himself too. 

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. Without my magic, I’m…” He trails off, looking to the clouds in the far distance. They haven’t gotten closer or bigger, and the ocean is no rougher, but Wilde feels a slow dread creep up on him, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling. Who would Zolf be without his magic? A sailor, a pirate, an ex-mercenary, the son of a Harlequin. A man with a big heart and a mouth he can’t stop from babbling. A grumpy bastard who delights in romance novels. Perhaps Wilde’s only friend, at this stage. 

“I don’t know what would happen,” Wilde says, and he doesn't know how to meet Zolf’s eye so he does the next best thing and takes his hand. “But Zolf, you wouldn’t be facing it alone. There are worse things to be than magicless.” 

There’s a tension in Zolf’s shoulders that is going to ache tomorrow, and a stubbornness on his face as he grips Wilde back. “If I reject Poseidon,” Zolf says, quietly, his voice a hoarse whisper on the wind, “then he might kill us both.” 

There’s a look on Zolf’s face that Wilde recognises from his mirror. It’s a mixture of fear and apprehension, of moving forwards when all he wants to do is turn around and get into bed. It’s a look Wilde’s used to, on a face he’s familiar with, but the combination churns his stomach and rises behind his eyes. He brings his other hand to meet where theirs are entwined in his lap, clasping them together so Zolf’s is engulfed between both of Wilde’s. 

“He can bloody well try,” Wilde says back. Because to die for no reason is not a way Oscar Wilde is willing to go, but dying to help Zolf get away from a god he no longer serves doesn’t seem all too bad. Dying for Zolf Smith almost seems right. 

* * *

The storm hits them that night. They both thought it might be coming, knowing full well how quick Poseidon rises to express his anger. They sit together on the deck, neither wanting nor able to sleep. The waves start slowly, rocking the boat up and down, but they grow quickly and violently, and Wilde feels a deep fear settling in. Zolf’s done this before, knows how to balance himself, but it’s all new for Wilde and he clutches with white knuckles to the railing. 

“You alright?” Zolf calls to him over the wind the first time he’s knocked to his knees. 

“Yeah,” he replies, only lying a little bit. As if in direct response to his reply, a wave twice the height of their mast crashes down on them, and Wilde slips again. It feels more ice than water, not just in temperature, but with how sharp it feels against Wilde’s skin. 

“Wilde!” Zolf calls out, and Wilde catches sight of him. He’s still on deck, still on his feet. He still has his feet, Wilde notices, and another wave tips the boat. It doesn’t capsize, but it’s a close call. Zolf reaches out for him, not to grab him but just in his direction, and when his face falls Wilde realises he must have tried to cast a spell. Tried, and failed. 

“I’m okay,” Wilde assures him, touched by Zolf’s care. He’s still shackled, it wouldn’t have worked anyway, but it’s a dangerous indicator of their unlikeliness to survive the storm if Poseidon has already taken Zolf’s magic back. 

“Hold on!” Zolf shouts, voice bounced away by the winds and the waves crashing together around them. Wilde wants to bite back something sarcastic, but they’re hit again and it takes all of his focus to stay on board. Once the wave has receded he wipes an arm across his face, clearing the water from his eyes. 

He looks up, and sees where Zolf was standing. His position on the deck is empty, and Wilde’s heart plummets. “Zolf!” He calls out, frantically clawing his way across the deck. When he reaches the other side he spots a hand, pale and calloused, gripping the taffrail. 

“Zolf,” he gasps out again, and reaches over to haul his friend back on board. Zolf grunts his thanks and bracers himself as the next wave hits the boat. 

“Wilde, I’m sorry,” he rasps. Wilde still has a hand clasped on Zolf’s shoulder, clinging to him as desperately as he does to the boat. “You shouldn’t have to be here.” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Wilde spits out through gritted teeth. “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

The sad thing is, Wilde realises as he clings to Zolf, and Zolf clings to him, that is to some degree true. Right now, with Zolf fighting for his life with a god on a sinking ship, there is nowhere Wilde would be than at his side. 

“Ha!” Zolf laughs, his voice bitter and raw as it rips from his throat. “Wilde, this is important. Listen to me.” He reaches up to the collar of Wilde’s shirt and pulls him down so they’re eye to eye, on the same level. Wilde swallows around the lump in his throat but lets Zolf speak. He doesn’t like where he thinks this is going. 

“Hold onto the boat with everything you’ve got, and whatever you do, _don’t follow me_.” 

“Zolf,” Wilde growls, letting go of the boat to cling onto Zolf. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you _fucking_ dare.” 

“This isn’t your fight,” Zolf pleads. “If he takes me he might leave you.” 

“How do you think this ends?” Wilde asks desperately. “What do you expect me to do next? Wash up on shore and carry on with my life?” 

“Yes!” Zolf exclaims, punctuated by another violent rock of the Spirit. “That’s exactly what I expect! This is bigger than me, bigger than us.”

“Right now, Zolf, it’s not,” Wilde says, but Zolf doesn’t get the chance to hear it before his legs disappear beneath him, and he falls to the deck. He doesn’t even make it to the deck, though, as another wave swoops in and snatches him out of Wilde’s hands, and just like that, Wilde is alone. 

“No, no, no,” Wilde begs. He’s not being left behind, not again. Without a second thought, Wilde dives down after Zolf. It’s so much colder submerged than it was simply being drenched, but Wilde sets that aside and pulls himself down, down, down, desperately swimming after Zolf. He has to resurface without even coming close to Zolf, knowing he needs oxygen right now or he won’t be of any use to either of them. Poseidon is angry, furious. He’s a god and he’s unleashing his wrath on both Zolf and Wilde, and it only takes one unsteady heartbeat for Wilde to realise exactly what he has to do. With ice-numbed fingers, he reaches for his ankles and unclasps his cuffs. 

The pain doesn’t hit him instantly but he doesn’t allow himself the luxury of being surprised. He’s on borrowed time now, and he has to act quickly. Shoving the cuffs into his jacket pocket, Wilde grabs a rope from the boat and casts Dimension Doors. 

Magic courses through his veins, filling him with music and life and a searing heat as he feels himself reappear next to Zolf deep under the water. His vision clouds out in the darkness so he closes his eyes, looping an arm around Zolf’s waist and holding him close. Zolf’s not moving but Wilde doesn’t dare to think about that, instead focusing on tying the rope around and around him. He uses the knots Zolf taught him over the last few weeks, yanking and pulling and tugging and hoping, hoping so much he feels like it could kill him. 

Poseidon still has them, the currents dragging both of them further and further into his depths, but Wilde has his magic back, he has power, and he has Zolf secured to him. His head is spinning and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s lacking oxygen, or if the curse is already taking hold, but he casts again and sends them both to the surface. 

By some miracle, they make it, crashing to the surface. Wilde’s exhausted, his blood moving like tar through his veins, but he’s not done yet. He hauls them both to the nearest piece of driftwood and sings with what little breath he has, casting spotlight. The world darkens behind them and a searing blaze of light shoots out from their positioning. 

With hands so cold they’ve gone numb, Wilde shoves the cuffs back onto his wrists. They take a couple of tries, but he gets them on securely again, and with the last of his energy he fastens his end of the rope around his middle and crawls up onto the driftwood beside Zolf’s laid out body. 

* * *

When Wilde awakens, it’s to a room he doesn’t recognise. The ceiling is pale and he’s lying down, and there are people milling about him. He’s been in enough hospitals in his life to recognise that’s where he is now. His body aches and his arm slumps heavily at his side. It’s familiar in a way he doesn’t like but has come to accept; he knows that’s where his cuffs are. 

“You’re awake,” a voice says to his left, and he turns his head to greet them. 

“Ugh,” he says, inelegantly and unattractively. 

“I’m Ria,” the healer says, “paladin of Aphrodite. We found out off the eastern coast two days ago. What do you remember?” They’re a halfling, with light brown skin and a black braid loosely falling down their back. Their robes are pink, like Azu’s were, and when they fix their deep brown eyes on Wilde he finds he can’t look away. 

“Southern coast?” Wilde repeats. His head feels thick and heavy, so it isn’t until he’s gotten a couple of words out that he realises they’re speaking Danish. 

Southern coast? Southern coast of _where_ , Wilde thinks, and it starts to come back to him. The boat, the storm, the crash, Zolf. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and frantically looks around the room. There’s a curtain separating him from the bed beside him, and he tries to lean over to pull it back. Is that where they’re keeping Zolf?

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” Ria says gently, moving in and pressing Wilde back into his bed. They get a cup from the bedside table and fill it with water, pressing it to his hands. 

“Zolf?” Wilde rasps, and his throat burns so he takes a long drink of the water. “Where’s Zolf? He was tied to me.”

Ria blinks at him slowly and refills his glass. Their silence unnerves him and he feels a rising panic in his chest. 

“Let me get someone who can help,” they say, but Wilde’s hand shoots out and grabs their wrist before they can move away. That’s not good news. That’s not what people say when everything’s okay. 

“Where’s Zolf,” Wilde asks again, his voice rising with hysteria. “Is he-” but he can’t finish that sentence, can’t bear to know in case he’s right. 

“There is hope,” Ria says soothingly, and when they lay their hands on Wilde’s shoulders and press him back into a lying position, he complies. _There is hope_ , he thinks, and he closes his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his eyes remaining shut. Their use of the word _hope_ implies something has gone horribly wrong, but Wilde remembers the determined look on Zolf’s face as he told Wilde to go on without him, he remembers the ice and the waves dragging them down. He already knew it wouldn’t be easy. _Hope_. Zolf might be okay. 

“What’s your name?” Ria asks, and Wilde can hear them settling into the chair next to his bed. 

“Wilde,” he says. “Um, Oscar.”

“Wilde,” Ria says, leaning in a little closer. “You get some rest, I’ll still be here when you wake up.” 

“I don’t need rest,” Wilde mutters, but he can feel it deep in his bones that he absolutely does. “I need to check on Zolf and figure out our next move.” 

“Zolf will still be here when you wake up,” Ria promises, and it’s the most reassuring thing they could’ve said. “As will I. But you’ve got a heavy journey coming up and you need to be well rested before you can continue.” 

“Are you aware of how ominous you sound, Ria?” Wilde says, closing his eyes and letting the tension wash out of him. Sleep’s tugging at him again, and the last thing he hears is Ria’s soft laugh as he drifts off. 

* * *

As they promised, Ria is there when Wilde wakes up. 

“Zolf?” He says, pushing himself up again. It’s easier this time, his body aching less and his mind clearer. Ria smiles at him. 

“Just me,” they say. “But this is good. You’re close with your Zolf?” 

A wave of possessiveness washes over Wilde at that and it takes him by surprise. He doesn’t get like that, not really, but hearing it now feels right, it sits well where it settles beneath his ribs. He nods. 

“This is good, Wilde. May I call you Wilde?”

“Of course,” Wilde says. “It is my name.” 

“Yes, you did say,” Ria smiles. “But I didn’t know if you’d prefer Oscar.” 

“Wilde’s fine,” he says, biting back the urge to tack “stop asking” onto the end. 

“How are you feeling, Wilde?” 

His muscles are still stiff when he moves, but he brings his hands to his face and scrubs them over his eyes. All in all, he doesn’t feel too bad. 

“Mostly okay,” he says. “Where’s Zolf?” 

“I’ll take you to him soon,” Ria promises, standing up. “We’ve had to heal you mundanely because of your cuffs. I assume you know about your curse and that’s why you wear them?” 

Wilde self-consciously fiddles with them as he brings a leg up to his chest so he can move them down to an ankle. “Yeah," he says, unclipping one half and attaching it to his ankle. “Although, if you know any more about it then I’d love to hear what you found.” 

Ria shakes their head as they deposit a small pile of clothes at the end of Wilde’s bed. “I’m afraid we couldn’t find anything more than the basics. Really nasty magic but we couldn’t trace its origin. We’ve had some clothes brought in for you, they should fit alright. I’m sorry, but the ones we found you in weren’t salvageable.” 

Wilde leans forwards and picks them up. They're soft and simple: loose fitting trousers, a top, a jersey. There’s underwear, too, and socks and slippers. He’ll need to replace his boots and his coat, and his bag, and figure out a way to reach Einstein. He’ll need to get back to Atsugi, he supposes, back to his papers and the plans he hadn’t thought to make. He frowns. 

“I’ll fetch Florence,” Ria says, turning to the door. “She wanted me to alert her when you woke. She can explain it all so much better than I can. You get changed, and I’ll be back soon.”

When Ria returns it is with a dwarf cleric Wilde assumes must be Florence. He’s taken the time to get up and dressed, as Ria suggested, and it feels good to be in clothes again. He’s got a mark around his middle from where his rope must’ve cut into him, but even without magic he knows it’ll fade away to nothing quickly. 

“Florence,” Ria says, gesturing to Wilde, “this is Wilde Oscar. They are awake and better, and asking about their friend.” 

Florence nods and gestures Wilde over to her. He wants to correct Ria on his name, but he doesn’t want to embarrass them, and it doesn’t seem too necessary. 

“We have set up a meeting room,” Florence says, turning to head back out the door already. “We feel it will be best to discuss going forward in private.” 

“Is Zolf already there?” Wilde asks, following her out of the room. Ria slips in behind him, taking up the rear. 

“Your companion is nearby. You can visit him once we’ve talked.” 

“Visit him?” Wilde echoes. “What do you mean, visit him? What’s happened?” 

“Come this way, Mx Oscar,” Florence says, steamrolling over Wilde’s concerns in a way that only highlights them. 

“Mr is fine. Or Oscar. Or Wilde,” he mutters, clenching his hands at his sides and looking back to Ria. Ria says nothing, their gaze fixed sternly on the ground. 

_There is hope,_ Wilde thinks to himself, clinging to it with everything he is. _There is hope there is hope there is hope_. 

When they reach the room Florence takes a seat around a small circular table. The room is smaller than Wilde was expecting, but he says nothing as he takes one of the other chairs and sits down, too. Ria closes the door after them and sits down to Florence’s right. 

“Forgive me for my manner, I know you must have questions, but we need to move quickly if you want to talk to your friend,” Florence says, her voice sombre. 

“Questions can wait,” Wilde agrees. “Where is he?” 

“I’m going to talk, Wilde, and I don’t want you to say anything until I have finished. Can you listen?” 

“Yes!” Wilde exclaims. “Yes, I can listen, tell me what’s going on.” 

“We found you two days ago when you cast a spotlight out at sea. A fishing vessel was nearby and they pulled you in. They brought you both to us, and we removed your cuffs to stabilise you, but put them back as soon as we realised why you had them on.” 

Wilde nods, trying to be patient, but wanting to skip to the part where they tell him what happened to Zolf. He grips his hands together under the table, fingers interlocked and squeezing tight. The pressure helps, but only marginally. 

“You were alive, of course, but your... Zolf, wasn’t.” 

Wilde inhales sharply, his focus snapping to Ria. “You lied,” he hisses, unable to stop himself. 

“Mr Oscar,” Florence interjects. “I told you to listen.” 

Like a school child, Wilde drops at the reprimand. 

“We don’t have long, but you can bring him back. But it won’t be easy. I trust you know of Orpheus and Eurydice?” Florence makes a gesture with her hand and Wilde takes it as permission to talk now. 

“Of course,” he says, words tripping out too quickly. “What do I have to do?” 

“You have to guide him back. The longer we wait, the further gone his spirit will be. It’s not like the legend of Orpheus and Eurydice, you will be allowed to look at him and touch him. But it is a magic process.” 

“Oh,” Wilde says, a soft exhale of breath. He looks down at his shackles, the bulk they create under his new trousers. 

“We assessed your condition when we found you,” Florence continues. “And Ria tells me you are close with him. We have reason to believe we can keep you well enough for the journey, so long as you do not dawdle.” 

“Right,” Wilde says. “Do we go now?” 

“We advise eating and resting before seeking someone out, but as you have been resting since you arrived, I suggest you just have a meal before you leave,” Florence says, her voice calm and far too slow for Wilde’s energy levels. His stomach twists in knots at the mention of food and he shakes his head. 

“I, uh. Eating will not be a good idea for me right now, I think,” he says, his hands squeezing tight again in his lap. Florence looks him up and down, silently assessing him, before nodding her head. 

“Very well,” she says, and stands up. Wilde copies, almost tripping over his chair in his haste. 

“What will it cost?” He asks, locking his jaw into place, eyes fixed straight ahead. Florence falters in her step, ever so slightly, and glances back at him. 

“It doesn’t work like that,” she says slowly. 

“Resurrection isn’t cheap,” Wilde presses. “I don’t have much to offer you right now, but I promise I can make good on it once I have him back.” 

“It doesn’t work like that,” Florence repeats. “We can discuss this later, Mr Oscar. Our priority lies with your Zolf.” 

“Of course,” Wilde says. “Of course.” And he tries to trust her. 

* * *

Zolf is laid out in a hall. There are a couple of other bodies around, laid out in pairs, hands held together. As Florence leads him over to Zolf, Wilde realises what they are. They’re more dead people, with someone alive holding their hands. Wilde assumes this is what he’s about to be doing. 

“Before you lay down,” Florence says in a quiet voice, “you must remove your cuffs. Ria will stay here with you and do what she can to keep you healthy.” 

Wilde does as he’s told, unbuckling them and placing them in Ria’s open hands. Florence then gestures for him to take his place at Zolf’s side, so Wilde does, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“One more thing, Wilde,” Florence says as he settles himself down on the ground next to Zolf. He slips his hand inside Zolf’s, threading their fingers together. “If he doesn’t want to return, you can’t make him. This has to be his choice.” 

Wilde closes his eyes. Zolf will want to come back, won’t he? _Don’t follow me, this isn’t your fight_. Zolf’s last words to Wilde ring in his ears and Wilde forces them out again, instead focusing on his breathing. In, two, three, four, out, two, three four. 

Here is his heartbeat, strong and steady, even if it is quicker than usual. Here is his pulse, thrumming in his veins. He presses his hands together, palm to palm. Warmth gathers between them, building in their stillness, and after a minute he moves them apart again, bringing his palms to his cheeks. The heat is familiar and Wilde takes in a final deep breath before dropping his hands back to his sides and opening his eyes. 

The first thing he notices isn’t anything he can see, but it’s more what he can feel. There’s music fizzing in the air. It carries on the breeze and crashes to the rocks with the waves, and it fills Wilde up in ways he has missed more than he could ever say. He can feel himself responding to it, his arms swaying at his side, his breath already slowing down to match the rhythm he can feel in the cliff face. Gods, it’s _everywhere._ How could he have forgotten this?

He takes another deep breath to steady himself and looks up at his surroundings. 

He’s on a beach. 

He’s on a small stony bay with deep grey waves crashing to the shore. The sky is dark with thick purple clouds and the sea carries a breeze with it. It’s warmer than he expected, the air thick with an oncoming storm. It almost feels tropical, but then the wind catches a spray of sea water and it clings to Wilde’s short hair and runs down his neck, as cold as he first expected. He suppresses a shiver and looks around. 

There are cliffs up to the sky, crags reaching high, but no seabirds have made their roosts, none swoop between the waves. Zolf is nowhere in sight, and despite the music, Wilde feels more alone than he has in weeks, maybe months. He swallows around the lump in his throat and starts walking down the beach. He can feel something calling to him. It’s not quite the absence of music but maybe it’s the potential of a new melody. He knows, without a doubt, that it will lead him to Zolf. 

Even without the music and gut instinct, the route to Zolf is obvious. This small beach has only one way to go. The cliffs are too sheer to climb, and the sea is rough and unwelcoming. But at the northern end of the cove is the yawning entrance to a cave. Logically, it’s where Zolf is. Wilde cuffs his sleeves, rolling them to the elbow, and heads over.

The entrance to the cave looms tall. There’s a darkness to it that seems unnatural to the daytime light of outside, but it fits in with the monochrome gloom of the beach. 

“Zolf?” Wilde calls, and his voice bounces off the walls in 6/8 time. He knows it’s just for him, this music he carries, and he lets it guide his steps as he’s always done

The cavern is nothing like anything Wilde has ever seen before. It’s dark, a deep inky blue that spills over the rough surface of the rocky walls and soaks into the starlit water. Zolf’s sitting there on the shore, working on something blocked from Wilde’s view. Despite the feel of darkness, of a calm and quiet night, Wilde can see Zolf perfectly fine. He’s shirtless as he works and his back is to Wilde, the tattoos that spread out over his shoulder blades and down his back on full display for the first time. 

“Zolf,” Wilde says again, and this time Zolf looks up. His body turns slightly and he looks over his shoulder, a small smile wrinkling his eyes. 

“Wilde,” he says, and turns back to looking out into the cavern. It’s the starlight that catches Wilde’s breath. They’re deep underground, he can feel it in the currents and the dampness to the air. But when he looks upwards he can see the stars, clear as anything, looking down on them both. He takes a moment to soak it in, to hear their echoing beat, to feel them in his bones. He can make out a couple of constellations, Pegasus and Grus. Polaris shines bright in the centre of the cave. 

Wilde draws his gaze back down to his friend. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but his words fail him and nothing comes out. He presses his lips together in a frown and toes off his shoes, opting to stay silent and join Zolf in the sand instead. 

“Make yourself useful and hand me that wrench, won’t you?” Zolf asks, holding his hand out behind him. Wilde picks it up on his way over and presses it into his outstretched palm. 

“What are you working on?” Wilde asks, settling down into the sand beside him. It’s a comfort he’s long forgotten, the feeling of his ankles resting under his knees without the now-familiar press of his cuffs digging into his skin. 

“My own little boat,” Zolf says, not looking up from a bolt he’s tightening. “She’s called the Spirit. Not sure where I’m taking her, yet, but we’ll figure it out.” He places the wrench back on Wilde’s thigh and rises to his knees to reach for something else. Wilde looks away, a sick sense of deja vu washing over him. 

“We?” Wilde asks, picking the word up with both hands and holding it to his heart. 

“Of course,” Zolf says, still tinkering away without looking up. “You will come with me, Wilde, won’t you?” 

Wilde swallows around the lump in his throat. He looks around this beautiful place Zolf has brought him, he feels the music of magic singing to him. Zolf hums to himself as he works, and Wilde doesn’t think he even notices he’s doing it, but it’s the same song that thrums through Wilde’s heartbeat. He looks away, casts his gaze out to the water. He can’t handle this, right now. He has to put it aside and focus on his task. He’s no use to Zolf if they both stay here. 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice thick and bare. “Yeah, Zolf, I’d come with you.” 

Zolf looks up at him now, a concerned frown on his brow. “What’s wrong?” He asks, and he puts down his tools and turns to face Wilde. He has, Wilde notices absently, two flesh legs. Wilde closes his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he promises, but his voice wavers, betraying his goddamn heart. “You’re happy here.” 

“Of course,” Zolf says slowly. “Is that a bad thing?” 

“No,” Wilde rasps, opening his eyes again. “Never.” 

“Okay,” Zolf says slowly. “Then why are you crying?” 

Wilde brings a hand to his face to find Zolf is right. His cheeks are damp and warm, and he wipes the tears away with the back of his hand. 

“I can’t stay,” he admits. 

“But you just said-”

“I would. If I could come with you, I would,” Wilde clarifies. He pushes himself to his knees, to his feet, and stands, half-looming, over Zolf. Zolf copies, rising to his own feet. 

“What’s stopping you?” Zolf asks, a flash of his temper shining through his voice, and Wilde’s heart aches for him. 

“I don’t belong here, Zolf,” Wilde says gently. He turns away from him and walks down to the water’s edge, dipping his toes in. It’s warmer inside the cavern than it was on the beach. Wilde can hardly feel it, just the softness where the surface meets the cave air, kissing against his skin. Its tones are different, there’s more life to it and it sounds so much like Zolf that Wilde has to take a moment to steady himself. He hasn’t heard this before, this song that calls to Zolf, to which he answers unawares, but now that Wilde can feel it he wonders how he’d never picked it up earlier. 

“What do you mean?” Zolf asks as Wilde wades deeper. 

“Can’t you feel it?” Wilde asks. “Doesn’t something feel wrong to you?”

“Do you mean the music?” Zolf asks, and that stops Wilde in his tracks. Zolf catches up to him until they’re standing side to side, the water up to Zolf’s chest but only reaching Wilde’s hips. “Because that doesn’t feel wrong at all. It just feels like you.” 

“It is me,” Wilde says quietly. He sings, his voice echoing through the cave like a choir in a cathedral, and his heart fills with longing. With a careful flick of his wrist, Wilde sends sparks spiralling through the air, blue and yellow and pink, dancing with the sound. Zolf watches with wide eyes. 

“How come I can hear it, then?” Zolf asks, and that’s the question Wilde has been thinking too. He doesn’t know the answer, so he stays quiet, instead playing with his magic. 

He moves as he casts, wading through the water, sending ripples fanning out around him. They chime as they move, and the acoustics in Zolf’s cave compliment them perfectly. Zolf follows Wilde, and they move in time until it’s too deep for Zolf, and he rolls onto his back, opting to float rather than swim. Because they’ve slipped into a rhythm and because he likes the way Zolf looks, Wilde copies him, starfishing out too. 

“Do you want to come home?” Wilde asks, his eyes fixed on the stars drifting about them. If he waits long enough he catches a falling one, wishing for nothing but Zolf’s decision. 

“Home?” Zolf frowns, shaking his head. His eyes squeezing shut as he takes a deep breath. Then he drops suddenly, head under the water, and Wilde just stands there watching the empty space that once was Zolf Smith with vague confusion. He can feel Zolf’s currents, drifting below the surface. Harmony in every sense of the word. Wilde waits with a patience he’s never really known, and enjoys the feeling of Zolf’s energy bubbling beneath the surface. It takes longer than Wilde expects for him to resurface, but when he does the water droplets caught in his beard, dripping from his hair, are filled with little galaxies. Wilde can’t look away. 

“What,” he breathes, transfixed. “Where are we, Zolf?” 

“Does it matter?” He replies, sitting up slightly, and Wilde wants to say yes, he wants clarification because it’s so unlike Zolf not to care about something like this, but he holds his tongue. If it doesn’t matter to Zolf, it doesn’t matter to Wilde.

“I guess not,” Wilde says eventually. Zolf gives him a brief nod, the slightest tilt of his head, and leans back into the water. It catches him, holds him just below the surface, nothing but his head poking up. Wilde’s fingers twitch uncomfortably at his sides as he stands back up. He’s never seen Zolf this calm, this at peace, and it unnerves him. How can he ask Zolf to come back with him, when he has already moved on from the chaos of their waking world? It wouldn’t be fair. A dark bitter note furls like bracken in Wilde’s stomach and he looks back at the shore so Zolf won’t see it on his face. 

“I think we are home,” Zolf says when he resurfaces. 

“I can’t stay,” Wilde says again, trying so hard not to burden Zolf with his feelings. “But if this is where you feel at home, that’s okay, Zolf.” 

“Where are you going?” Zolf asks, and the floating tempo picks up a beat with Wilde’s heart rate. Zolf notices, his head twitching to catch the music. “What aren’t you telling me, Wilde?” 

“I need to wake up, Zolf,” Wilde says sadly. “And you can wake up with me, too, but it won’t be easy. If you want to stay here, if you want to stay home, you’re allowed.” 

Zolf considers it for a moment, subtly swaying to the music. He doesn’t know he’s doing it, Wilde can tell by the tension in his shoulders. 

“But it won’t be home, will it?” Zolf asks. He makes it sound so simple, and Wilde hopes for a fleeting moment, that it can be. “Without you and your music?” 

“Even if you come with me, Zolf, you won’t hear my magic. I don’t have it when I’m awake, and you wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway.” 

“But I can hear it now,” he says. “I can feel it. I can feel _you_ in it.” 

“I don’t have it any more,” Wilde says, and it’s the hardest thing he’s had to admit aloud. Here he is in a beautiful place with Zolf, with his magic, with life’s music singing to him, and he can’t even have it. It’s tempting to ignore that, to help Zolf fix their boat and agree to stay, but Wilde thinks of Grizzop and Sasha, of Azu and Hamid. Wilde thinks of the mess of the world outside. It should make this place only that much more enticing, but he looks over at Zolf and closes his eyes. He can hear the music, he can feel the music, but he’s not done yet. His time will come, but that time isn’t now. He knows what he has to do. 

“I have to go, Zolf,” he says. “Are you coming with me or staying here?” 

Zolf looks at him, face soft with affection, and smiles. “Of course I’m coming with you,” he says. “Staying alone isn’t even an option.”

* * *

Wilde comes back to himself, jolting awake to the dimly lit room he remembers falling asleep in. He’s sweating profusely, but shakes wrack through his body. Zolf’s hand is soft in his own clammy one, and he lets it drop to the ground so he can clutch at his stomach as it spasms. 

“You’re awake,” Ria says, Wilde knows she says, but it sounds like she’s talking from underwater. He groans in response. 

“Wilde, listen to me. We need to get these cuffs back on you, and to get you somewhere we can monitor you.” She takes one of his arms, slowly, carefully. Wilde doesn’t have it in him to resist- not that he would- and her touch burns him. 

“Ah!” He gasps, flinching back. 

“Wilde. Wilde Oscar, can you hear me?” She asks, hands hovering awkwardly now. Wilde squeezes his eyes shut and nods slowly. Wrong move, though, because despite his closed eyes, the world lurches from left to right and he can feel bile rising in his throat. 

“Wilde, forgive me, but I’m going to touch you again,” Ria warns, and she takes his hand more firmly this time and locks both circlets on his cuffs around his wrist. 

The change is instant in the way that the awful sensations all stop building. They don’t dissipate like Wilde had hoped they would, but at least they’re not exponentially growing with every moment. 

“Hnng,” he groans, and then he’s sick in his own lap. 

It’s humiliating being so weak and helpless, especially with new company, especially in such a sacred place, especially when he already owes them more than he could hope to repay as is. 

Ria takes him back to his room and feeds him more water. He refuses her offer for food, immensely grateful he declined a meal before seeking out Zolf. He’s finished retching up bile and his body is still shaking, but at least he’s stopped heaving every time he moves too quickly. He finds himself fading in and out of sleep, but Ria’s there, faithfully at his side, every time he wakes. 

“Has Zolf woken up yet?” He asks. She shakes her head at him, standing up to press her hand to his forehead. 

“It’s not uncommon for the returned to take a few days to come back to us,” she explains, for the hundredth time and Wilde rasps through shallow breaths. His body is failing him, he’s spent too long without his cuffs recently. He’s dying, he knows it. He just wishes he could at least say goodbye to Zolf first. 

“Can you make him hurry up?” He says instead. “The slow bastard.” 

Ria says nothing to that, just smiles at him sadly and gets another damp flannel to lay against his neck. 

* * *

Wilde wakes, barely, to the sound of a hushed conversation. He recognises Ria’s voice, and he thinks he knows the other, but he’s having trouble placing it. He doesn’t have the energy to open his eyes, or move at all, and just lies there, listening to what he can focus on. 

“It’s our only chance,” Ria says desperately, and a panic surges through Wilde. They must be talking about Zolf. Of course they are. What do they need to do? 

“We can't do something like this without informing him first! We need his willing consent,” the other voice says, low and powerful. 

“But he has been getting worse each time he wakes,” Ria argues back. “And he’s been sleeping for longer and longer. What if he doesn’t wake up again?” 

Wilde whimpers at the thought of that, a desperate sound choking out from his swollen throat. 

“Wilde,” Ria says, and something cool and damp comes to rest on Wilde’s forehead. 

“Do it,” Wilde croaks out. He’ll deal with Zolf’s grumpy side himself, if he has to. As long as they do what they can to save him, it’s got to be worth it. His fist twists in the blanket and he holds it as tight as he can. “Whatever it is, do it.” 

“Florence?” Ria says, addressing the other person in the room. “This could be our last chance.” 

“Wilde,” the other voice says, closer and clearer this time. It takes most of his strength, but Wilde manages to open his eyes. “We need to erase your memories.” 

Wilde closes his eyes again. Erase his memories? How would that help Zolf? It doesn’t make sense. “Why?” 

“The curse is killing you,” she explains. Wilde knows this, he’s figured it out. He doesn’t get what it has to do with Zolf, though. “You were vulnerable for too long, and while you’re protected again now, it still has its hold on you. If we erase your memories of being without the cuffs, we should be able to sever its power over you.” 

“Will that,” he says, cut off by a tirade of coughs. “Will that help him?” 

“Wilde,” Ria says, her voice so soft and sad. “Zolf’s already safe. He’s okay. We need to do this for you.” 

Zolf’s okay. He’s safe, he’s okay. It worked. He laughs, a brief and painful thing, and loosens his grip on the blanket. 

“Wilde,” Ria says, her voice sounding far away again. “Wilde, please, let us do this.” 

Zolf’s okay. Zolf is okay, he’s safe, and it wasn’t all for nothing. 

“I did it,” he says, trying to open his eyes again. The lights are bright and harsh, and he screws them shut almost instantly. “I did it.” 

“You did,” Ria says, and he feels her hand stroking through his hair. “We won’t undo what you’ve done. But you won’t get to see him again if you don’t let us fix this.” 

“Fix this,” Wilde echoes, trying to parse what she’s saying. “Fix it.” He’s so, so tired. 

“Yes. If we take your memories, you’ll be okay. You will be okay, and Zolf will be okay, and you will get to see him again. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Wilde agrees. Maybe if he agrees she’ll let him sleep. Maybe if he agrees the lights will go out and the buzzing will stop. 

“Okay,” Ria says, and Wilde lets himself go. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I have outlined the next chapter but have not actually started writing it yet, so fingers crossed it won't take me too long and I'l be able to deliver soon!!
> 
> knifemartin on tumblr
> 
> nothing like a comment to help motivate me into writing more!


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